


Teachable Moments

by manic_intent



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice
Genre: Damn you self control where did you get to, M/M, PWP, Possessive Behavior, That postcanon pwp for the bvs kink meme: prompt: possessiveness, postcanon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 18:23:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6577480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clark knew that ‘Bruce Wayne’ was an act, one that was decades-old, that smile, the clothes, even the way Bruce stood, slightly hunched, making his imposing height look less threatening. The blank look in his eyes, the limp handshake, the lazy guileless smile: they were all as much Bruce’s armour as his suit’s vambraces and cowl. Some days, though, watching Bruce work the rounds, Clark wasn’t entirely sure if <i>Bruce</i> himself remembered where the mask stopped and where the real Bruce bled in. The ballerina’s lipstick left a red smear on Bruce’s pristine white collar, and Bruce looked at it and laughed, delighted, drunken. Clark looked away, a sour clench in his gut. He was going to have to leave or something was going to break.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Teachable Moments

**Author's Note:**

> The first step in totally losing it in a fandom is getting involved with the kink meme imo... XD;; dceu-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org Letting off some steam in the middle of writing my book. -_- 
> 
> Prompt: Bruce/Clark, possessiveness/jealousy: Clark hates seeing Bruce's public persona flirt with everyone. He knows Bruce has a reputation to maintain, but that doesn't mean he's not going to fuck Bruce hard and mark him all over to remind him who he belongs to.

Watching Bruce flirt with Diana in public the first time had been bad enough: the way his eyes had followed her out of the room, as though Clark wasn’t even _there_. After everything, though, when they’d gotten to know each other better, when Clark had finally, through some miracle, navigated the minefield of Bruce’s prickly nature into Bruce’s bed? That was worse. 

Clark knew that ‘Bruce Wayne’ was an act, one that was decades-old, that smile, the clothes, even the way Bruce stood, slightly hunched, making his imposing height look less threatening. The blank look in his eyes, the limp handshake, the lazy guileless smile: they were all as much Bruce’s armour as his suit’s vambraces and cowl. Some days, though, watching Bruce work the rounds, Clark wasn’t entirely sure if _Bruce_ himself remembered where the mask stopped and where the real Bruce bled in. The ballerina’s lipstick left a red smear on Bruce’s pristine white collar, and Bruce looked at it and laughed, delighted, drunken. Clark looked away, a sour clench in his gut. He was going to have to leave or something was going to break. 

Bruce’s ridiculous fishbowl of a house was oddly warm at night, and Clark wasn’t even sure why he’d flown there. Alfred had made himself scarce after a curt welcome: Clark knew that he still unnerved Alfred, deep down. He could understand. Coming back to life had somehow managed to upset more people than his _actual death_ had. He’d lost friendships, alliances - hell, he’d lost _Lois_. 

Only Bruce had remained unafraid, and that, more than anything, was probably why this had even started. Clark kicked off his shoes and hung up his coat, but didn’t bother with the rest of his clothes as he lay down on Bruce’s bed, breathing in his scent, closing his eyes. He wasn’t the only one who’d shared this bed with Bruce, not by a long shot. Clark had read the TMZ tell-alls, the tabloid scoops, every sordid little anecdote. 

Bruce Wayne, bleeding into _Bruce_. 

Clark dozed off, and woke up to Bruce yawning as he climbed over to get to his favourite side of the bed, knees and elbows everywhere. Bruce had showered, and he smelled of soap and hot water, unselfconsciously naked, and he frowned at Clark and batted at his hands as Clark rubbed a palm up his thigh. 

“Tired,” Bruce said brusquely. “Party ended late.”

Clark eyed the digital clock by the night stand, which told him that it was an utterly ungodly hour in the morning. “You could’ve left earlier.” 

“I could’ve,” Bruce said disdainfully, “But there was enough press in that gala to keep the gossip rags happy for another month or so, and I need some peace and quiet to work on the Black Hand matter.” 

“You take appearances too seriously,” Clark ignored Bruce’s irritated hiss, rolling them around such that he was on top, between Bruce’s thighs. “Speaking as a reporter? You don’t _actually_ need to keep your ‘public persona’ going like that all the time. Since what you did with the Swedish handball team? You’ve got enough ‘bad press’ for a lifetime. You could take up a new suitably frivolous hobby and it’d still be the same.”

“Yeah?” Bruce glared up at him. “Who died and left you in charge of PR?”

“Leak photographs of you playing golf in the Himalayan Mountains, things like that. _Something_. You’re not the only billionaire in the world.” 

“Only the most high profile one living in Gotham.” Bruce narrowed his eyes. “What’s your problem?” 

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit, you left the party early, I saw you.” Bruce had a hand clenched down over the back of Clark’s neck. “We had an agreement, Kent.” 

In normal circumstances, Clark would have winced at ‘Kent’ and backed off, apologetic. Now, however, his blood was up and he was still annoyed, and Bruce’s indifference was making it worse. “You seriously don’t know?” Bruce opened his mouth and Clark kissed him, almost hard enough to bruise: it _would_ be easy to bruise him, to mark him, and the seething violence of that thought should’ve been shameful. It almost was.

But then Bruce twitched against him and Clark heard it, that stifled little groan that died unvoiced in Bruce’s throat, heard Bruce’s heart rate pick up. Arousal was something that Bruce always tried to keep under control, like everything else. Clark could hear it anyway. He kissed Bruce until Bruce started to relax, until the hand around the back of his neck dropped down, fingers unbuttoning Clark’s shirt. By the time Clark was stripped bare he had bruised a mark on that pale neck, on those powerful shoulders, on the first scar that led down from Bruce’s collarbone towards his breastbone. 

“What’s gotten into you?” Bruce asked, though there was amusement in his voice, a darkly lazy purr, so close to bridging Bruce Wayne to Bruce. Clark growled and bit Bruce in response, above a nipple, nearly breaking skin, and felt Bruce twitch and hiss beneath him, cock sliding up against Clark’s thigh. 

“I don’t like seeing you with other people,” Clark admitted mulishly, groping in the side table for lube and condoms, and Bruce laughed again, teeth bared, and now this was more like Bruce, less like the playboy. This was Gotham’s animal, laughing, eyes narrowed in challenge. 

“What are you going to do about that?” 

“We’ll see.” 

Some days Clark wondered if Bruce was like this with his other playmates. Impatient, hungry to get off, primed on efficiency, like sex was something he did to scratch an itch, like there were a million other things Bruce would rather be getting around to. Bruce cursed him and grabbed at his hair as Clark pinned him to the bed and gave him the slowest blowjob he’d ever tried, all languid root-to-tip licks, spending time braced on the very tip, lapping the slit until he could taste bitterness on his tongue, even tucking Bruce’s hips up into the air to roll Bruce’s balls slowly in his mouth. 

“Fuck you,” Bruce gasped, though the animal was still laughing. “I’m not - agh - getting any younger- fuck-“ 

“Don’t make me gag you.” 

“Ooh, we’re down to threats,” Bruce bit back, “You really scare me, ngh, you and your vanilla farmboy- _ouch!_ ” Bruce jerked violently in Clark’s grip as he bit down hard, in the juncture between his thigh and pelvis, hard enough to lick blood onto his tongue. “Watch your goddamned teeth!” 

“I’m watching,” Clark shot back, blood still pressed coppery on his tongue as he let Bruce down, as he kissed Bruce roughly, rolling the taste between them. He felt Bruce stiffen under him, as though in shock, heard another moan stutter and die in Bruce’s throat. He’d break that reserve. He’d- 

“Now you’re starting to get interesting,” Bruce purred, and Clark was glad that his hands had been splayed on the bed, that at that moment he hadn’t been holding on to Bruce’s hips. Clark's hands clenched involuntarily on the sheets, hard enough to rip them. Insanely, instead of flinching away - that could’ve crushed bone and Bruce probably knew it - Bruce laughed instead, lower now, dangerous. Fingernails scraped down over Clark’s shoulders as he bent back to suck Bruce’s cock into his mouth, hard enough that Bruce was probably hurting his fingers, scratching at unyielding skin. Clark sucked him in a slow rhythm, bobbing up, lavishing attention on the tip, taking him back down, showing off, smirking each time he took Bruce in to the root, backing off to nip at his thighs whenever he felt Bruce getting too close. 

Bruce held out for a long time. The clock had ticked an hour closer to the morning by the time Bruce let out a tiny, wrecked sound, passing an arm over his eyes, his shoulders trembling against the bed. It wasn’t so much surrender as a hostile ceasefire. He could see the animal there still, glaring, as Clark obligingly let go, allowing Bruce to buck into his throat, to chase the edge, listening to his heart beat pick up almost to critical - then he pulled off, holding Bruce down. 

“Fuck-“ Bruce gasped, wide-eyed, but he was already too close, his hips jerking in Clark’s grip, heels digging into the sheets as his cock spat a wet line of come over his belly. 

“Didn’t say you could come,” Clark said breathlessly - Gods above, Bruce was _gorgeous_ , even like this, shaking from a ruined orgasm, furious and desperate all at once. Fingers clawed against Clark’s shoulders as Clark leaned up for a kiss, as Clark slicked up a finger to press it into Bruce’s hole, not waiting for the come down. 

“Jesus,” Bruce blinked, his breath hot on Clark’s cheek. Dazed. 

“Okay down there?” 

Bruce squeezed his eyes shut, his teeth gritted. “Hope you’re pleased with yourself.” 

“A little,” Clark admitted. He paused, a little concerned, and Bruce growled, squirming down over his finger. “Hey, you never know, you might get it up again.”

“Fuck you, asshole. That fucking _boy scout_ attitude, all a fucking lie,” Bruce hissed, “Fuck fuck _fuck_ ,” he added harshly as Clark pressed in another finger. 

“That mouth of yours. Needs a gag.” Clark wouldn’t do it, though. He liked hearing Bruce like this, pinned naked under him, stripped of everything but his acid tongue and temper. That very last inch of defiance made any conceded ground all the sweeter. 

Bruce went silent as Clark stretched him out, his breath evening out despite it having to hurt when Clark got to four fingers. He didn’t even make a sound as Clark turned him over onto hands and knees, but when Clark groped for a condom packet, Bruce let out a hoarse laugh. “Save it.”

“What?” 

“I’m clean. Besides, it’s not like you can catch anything.” 

Clark had to hastily grab at the root of his cock to fight off the sudden spike of visceral lust. “Are you sure about this?”

“Pretty sure my self-control died an early death the day I decided to let some cocky asshole with super-strength into my bed.” 

“You,” Clark swallowed his grin, lining up, and Bruce let out a soft exhalation as Clark pushed in, and this had to be hurting Bruce, he was still too tight, but as Clark hesitated, ready to pull out and try more prep, Bruce swore and grabbed at his hip and tugged. Skin to flesh, with _Bruce_ beneath him, this seemed far too intimate. Clark had to be hallucinating.

“You’re mine,” Clark breathed out, as Bruce arched against him, hands fisted on the bed. Bruce didn’t answer, and Clark nipped at one of his scars, the one close to his spine. “Do you hear me?” 

“Fuck off.” Bruce hissed. 

“I could,” Clark drew out an inch before shoving abruptly back in, hard enough to jerk Bruce up against the bed. He pulled an arm around Bruce’s waist, holding him flush. “Could stay like this too,” he added, as Bruce shuddered and squirmed. “You’re so hot and tight… I think I could stay hard like this for _hours_. Make you sleep off the day plugged up with my cock. I could spend the morning inside you.”

“Christ,” Bruce gasped, disbelievingly. “What happened to the nice innocent farmboy?”

“You pissed him off?” Clark suggested against the shell of Bruce’s ear. 

He didn’t expect Bruce to answer, or to bite out anything but a sardonic answer, but Bruce bowed his head against the pillows, his breaths hissing out in shallow gusts. “All right,” Bruce said gruffly. “Sorry.”

“That’s the least convincing apology I’ve ever heard.” 

“What the fuck do you want me to say? I’m _sorry_ , fuck. Fucking _move_. You’re killing me.” 

Clark obliged, if only because it was always possible that Bruce wasn’t entirely joking. That tension in his arms and shoulders spoke of some kind of strain. His back, maybe. Bruce huffed out in annoyance as Clark pulled out and flipped Bruce over, though he tipped his head back, biting down on his lip, as Clark shoved back in, lifting Bruce’s hips. Ankles caught over Clark’s shoulders and Bruce shivered in relief as Clark started to take him, all deep, punishing thrusts. Clark fucked him until Bruce’s hands were shaky on the sheets, until his handsome face went slack with pleasure, until the first tiny, helpless moans slipped past Bruce’s fraying control. Clark had always known that he could break Bruce like this if he wanted to, with lust, with a little kindness. But that had never been the point. 

Bruce let out a small and grateful sound as Clark got a hand on his cock, letting it stiffen the rest of the way, then he choked out a whine as Clark shifted, nailing his prostate. “All right there?” Clark asked, his own voice thick. Bruce managed a nod, and Clark grinned, driving in faster, bruising him, the bed frame knocking against the wall. Bruce started to squirm weakly, sensing that Clark was getting close, nudging back against him, and he hissed as Clark started to come, orgasm cored out of him in waves. 

“Shit,” Bruce gasped, as Clark pulled wetly out, “C’mon, I’m still-“ He tried to touch himself, but Clark pinned his wrists down to the bed. “ _Clark_.”

“Said you’re mine,” Clark breathed against his mouth, and this time Bruce didn’t curse him, trembling instead, quiet. This was probably as much acquiescence as Clark could get. He pressed his thigh against Bruce’s cock and felt disbelief shake through Bruce, chased by annoyance and then by desperation, and Bruce rubbed against him, breaths stuttering, all uneven thrusts until he was coming against Clark’s leg. 

Exhausted, Bruce dropped off to sleep, and didn’t even wake as Clark kissed his cheek, then his mouth, didn’t flinch as Clark touched the puffy edge of his hole, dipping fingers in the fluids seeping out. Bruce would learn. But Clark could sense that it was going to be a long and difficult lesson - not that he’d have it any other way.

**Author's Note:**

> well that had no literary merit XD;;  
> twitter: manic_intent  
> tumblr: manic-intent


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